His Many Shades of White
by crowlow
Summary: An account of Hisagi Shuuhei's personal life, from his academy days to the night before the Winter War. Originally posted Feb. 17th, 2010 at my livejournal. Gin/Rangiku, Gin/Rangiku/Shuuhei, Ukitake/Shuuhei, and Kazeshini/Shuuhei.


It began for him with one simple act. Aizen Sousuke and Ichimaru Gin, the captain and lieutenant of the Fifth Division. When Hisagi Shuuhei had lead a training exercise that went terribly wrong, those were the two men who'd gotten him out of it. The scar he acquired that day would forever be a reminder of the danger he'd always face, would instill new fears greater than the ones he already possessed. Like the sixty-nine that adorned his left cheek, it was just another souvenir; another memento to breathe life into old qualms.

_You cannot fend for yourself, Hisagi. He bailed you out when you were a child, and now two seated officers have saved your ass again. And if it wasn't for those three kids before Aizen and Ichimaru showed up, you would have died. Twice now your life has been jeopardized, because you don't have the strength or courage to save it without others stepping in. Will you ever learn to help yourself?_

With those thoughts polluting his mind, Shuuhei had returned to Soul Society.

* * *

He still had the bandage over the three wounds on his face when he went to thank Ichimaru Gin. The fifth division vice-captain had never been a man that Shuuhei familiarized himself with, and so it'd been a surprise to find that silver-haired fox in a compromising position with Matsumoto Rangiku. Voluptuous, ginger-haired Matsumoto. She'd always been a woman who roused Shuuhei, and when he caught her with her uniform falling over one shoulder, her oval face flushed, it ignited a fire within him. His veins had been flooded with a surge of heat, however calm and unmoved his expression may have remained. She had been staring at him with her blue-gray eyes, so pale that they appeared like shards of ice. Her large breasts had been heaving faintly, and the flush she already wore spread to her collarbone.

It had seemed to Shuuhei that she was beckoning him, but for whatever reason she wouldn't speak aloud. So it was Ichimaru who turned to him instead, and his black robes were loosened, revealing a large portion of pale skin. Too pale, Shuuhei had thought to himself. Too pale and too thin. Too clean was another transient whisper in the back of his mind, because the ink he wanted so anxiously was nowhere in sight.

But the man had a shade of hair that _was _familiar, and it was enough to keep Shuuhei there. That color was far too tempting, speaking to his inner child and his hidden desires. Earlier that day he'd almost lost his life, and this man, however disconcerting he was, had helped preserve it. There was a heaviness in the air: the weight of Shuuhei's misgivings; the weight of Rangiku's obvious arousal; and the weight of Ichimaru's eyeless stare. It was all enough to root the sixth-year where he stood, and when he felt cold fingertips touching his jaw like barely restrained talons, he didn't move away.

* * *

For a time Shuuhei had let himself succumb to Ichimaru's haunting presence, and Rangiku's unbridled passion. There were moments when he wanted to say, _"Your passion is misplaced, Rangiku. There is something about this that isn't right."_

A more admonishing voice in the back of his mind would mutter:_ Your acceptance of this arrangement is wrong too, Hisagi._

But always there were the silver-white strands, glowing under the kiss of moonlight through shoji doors. That hair would distract him just long enough for him to give in, and by then it was too late. Under those shadows it was easy to overlook everything else. It was easy to forget that Ichimaru's jaw wasn't as strong as Shuuhei wanted it be; that his nose was too delicate, and his eyes too slanted. And it was easy to imagine an amber gaze instead of chilling red, and a hard set mouth in place of the one that grinned disturbingly.

None of it was right, Shuuhei knew. None of it was what he really wanted.

But if he closed his eyes and focused on nothing but the feel of teeth piercing his shoulder, he could imagine that it was.

* * *

It went on like that for years, stretched into decades, to the point that Shuuhei could no longer remember how many encounters the three of them had. And then came the fateful day that changed things forever. A betrayal that no one saw coming, and the shock of it only worsened the blow. His captain's deceit overshadowed anything else he might have felt for Ichimaru or Aizen. Tousen, the man who'd trained him, and taught him everything he knew; the man he thought to be the very template for morality and justice. It was in that moment that something snapped inside Shuuhei, like the block that held his already shaky resolve together was yanked away. With the block gone, the entire structure crumpled.

The fact that he wasn't alone in his misery did nothing in way of solace. Kira Izuru and Hinamori Momo suffered the same experience, but what good did that provide Shuuhei? The three of them had their ways of dealing with it over the months to come. Hinamori was left visibly broken, and Kira closed to the world around him - however polite his facade in public. And as for Shuuhei, he immersed himself in work. He kept himself busy in a vain attempt to forget what had happened; what _was _happening. If he didn't give himself time to think about it, then it couldn't affect him.

In his heart he knew how mistaken he really was.

* * *

As time went on, the three of them developed a foreseeable understanding. An empathy for the others' situation, for the pain and hurt each of their captains had inflicted upon them. But there was only one person who knew more of the story for Shuuhei, and that was Rangiku. Ichimaru Gin was never her captain in terms of division, but he was her captain in other ways. Shuuhei knew that she felt the same grief as himself and the other two lieutenants.

And when Rangiku would pass him in the streets, there'd be a brief moment when her glacial eyes would meet his, and she'd communicate something for no one but themselves:

_He is gone, Shuuhei. The captain we shared is gone._

Of course he sympathized. He felt for her and the heartache she must have felt. But Ichimaru had always been more important to Rangiku than he ever was to Shuuhei. The man was never anything but a mere distraction; a very poor substitute for something that Shuuhei desperately craved, but couldn't have. And unlike some of the others, he hadn't been surprised by Ichimaru's treachery. To him the slender man had always been a ghost, and not in the way that normal shinigami were. The kind of ghost that seemed surreal, like a lost fragment of some other world. He didn't belong with the rest of them, Shuuhei had often thought. There was something to Ichimaru Gin's character that always felt _off_. When the silver-haired shinigami moved it was like a fox creeping through grass, hiding itself from its prey, and preparing for the inevitable bite that would end it all.

No, when the third division captain took his bite, Shuuhei hadn't been surprised. It was just another shade of white that fell into darkness, forever out of his sight.

* * *

There were days when Shuuhei would allow himself respite. He would let Rangiku take him drinking, and together they'd share what felt like an endless supply of sake. _We're getting good at sharing things,_ he would think.

_We're getting good at pretending, too._

With the alcohol at hand they could let themselves drown, sink to a state that wouldn't recognize reality. It was in those moments alone that Shuuhei could genuinely laugh, oblivious to all the troubles around them. All the duplicity, the pain, the memories that couldn't be forgotten. All of them fell victim to the haze. He would be swallowed by the sake, his drunkenness resulting in a different sense of heaviness that outweighed the bulk of his actual life.

It would only last for a night, and by morning everything returned. Only then he had the added ache of a hangover, but things such as that no longer mattered because Shuuhei was already ruined.

* * *

After a while, he took to visiting the white-haired captain of the Thirteenth. On those cold and lonely nights, he'd sit behind Ukitake as the man drank tea, threading his fingers through that long, pristine hair. White as the moon and smooth as satin, to Shuuhei it was like catching a cluster of stars in his hand. No, it was more like catching a fleeting dream that he had every night, of silver-white and gold.

Things were always silent between them, and the older man would glance at him through the dark, expression would stare into those warm, earth-colored eyes, then take note of Ukitake's illness. His sickly pale skin, his thin, hollowed face. Beautiful and serene, but no less damned by his affliction. _You are death in every way, Taichou,_ he would think.

_And still you are not as dead as me._

* * *

When Shuuhei had the courage to look himself in the mirror, he'd see only two things. The three scars that ran vertical over his right eye, and the sixty-nine etched along his left cheekbone. Feeling over that tattoo he'd expect the flesh to be uplifted like a welt, but it was only flat and even. Despite that he had always considered it a scar, on both his mind and his soul. A reminder of the man who'd saved him, as tall as a mountain and with the original sixty-nine like a beacon on his muscular torso. Shuuhei could never forget that larger-than-life shinigami - the warrior with his black war paint. The impression would never fade, like an unyielding brand burned onto his conscience. There was a time when he'd been foolish enough to think that all he had to do was seek a similar destiny to that of his savior's. Join the same squad, obtain the same tattoo, and maybe he'd find the same unshakable courage.

What an idiot he'd been.

His second scar was a testament to that. When he feels over that one, the skin is puckered. Always being saved by those around him, like a helpless newborn. He was tired of being vulnerable. He was tired of having to rely on others. If he really planned on following in that man's footsteps, he would make his own way. He'd find the courage to do what he had to no matter how difficult it seemed, and he'd find the strength to keep himself alive.

Hisagi Shuuhei would learn what it was to save himself.

_Without the aid of others._

* * *

His zanpakutou had always been something he hated. A tool designed to reap life itself, and for someone who'd always been terrified of death, Shuuhei didn't think that was the best match. But what could he do, return Kazeshini and ask for a refund? No, he could never do that, even if he wanted to. A zanpakutou was a part of its shinigami's soul, and as such Kazeshini was a part of Shuuhei's. No matter what their differences were, he would have to accept it and prevail. With the war so close he didn't have time for doubts and discomfort.

Sometimes in the dead of night, when Shuuhei was alone in his room, his zanpakutou would materialize. The spirit was made of shadows, which only served to better obscure him from his wielder's eye. But Shuuhei could feel his presence, heavy with violent intent. For the longest time Kazeshini would do nothing but sneer, cackle and hound with greetings like, _"How's the pussy doin' today?" _Even his own inner world was off limits, because Kazeshini was always ready to pounce, with twin sickles whirling. Shuuhei had to wonder what hope he had for survival when his own zanpakutou seemed to be his worst enemy. Too often he thought, _This is too much_. _It is too much to have a murderous spirit inside my head. It is too much to endure my captain's betrayal. Too much to wish for lost days, and too much to dream of an amber-eyed man whom I'll never find._

But then he remembers that he promised himself that he'd learn. He promised himself that he'd grow and find his own courage. Now it's the night prior to their battle in Karakura town, and Kazeshini is standing in the shadows again. Shuuhei knows that his zanpakutou can sense a change, because his usual mocking grin is gone, and in its place a look of hostile wariness. Shuuhei stares at the lethal being, at the creature who is a part of _his _soul. It's strange to think that he can be so frightened of death, and have a zanpakutou that delights in it. If he can find the balance between himself and Kazeshini, will he finally capture the resolution that he's always desired?

When he brings the flickering spirit to his knees, Shuuhei can't tell if Kazeshini's howls are of pleasure or pain.

His body tells him that it's both, because he feels the same harrowing carnality while dominating his zanpakutou.


End file.
